


I Used To Live Alone

by notmyrevolution



Series: Permanent [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So when Bahorel walks into the kitchen in the late afternoon and sees the notepad on the kitchen counter, adorned with a frowny face and the words “WE NEED MORE COFFEE DICKBAG” in angry red letters, it feels like he’s been punched in his ribs.</p><p>Bahorel is in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Used To Live Alone

Love is bullshit, he had said. He had told Bahorel the night they'd met, between tattoos and sex, explaining why love was just setting yourself up for heartbreak.

Bahorel had laughed and called him a cynic, paid little attention to what he said, because it wasn’t as if he was going to see that guy again, let alone get to the point where love was even a consideration. He has never expected to start having regular sex with his tattoo artist, he had never expected to become friends with Grantaire and he certainly had never expected to start questioning what it was he actually felt. 

So when Bahorel walks into the kitchen in the late afternoon and sees the notepad on the kitchen counter, adorned with a frowny face and the words “WE NEED MORE COFFEE DICKBAG” in angry red letters, it feels like he’s been punched in his ribs.

Bahorel is in love.

He becomes more aware of it as he walks around his apartment. It feels like everywhere he looks there’s a part of Grantaire, casually inserted into Bahorel’s life, and Bahorel doesn’t know when any of this started happening.  They first ended up here because he lives alone, it was easier not having to worry about noise and interruptions and clothing. Except at some point, it’s obvious that it’s moved past convenience for the sake of sex. It’s obvious that Grantaire has all but moved in. His shit is _everywhere;_ his clothes tucked into Bahorel’s drawers, his toothbrush sitting on the edge of the sink in the bathroom, his sketches of his friends and tattoo designs lying around where they were drawn and forgotten.

Bahorel is in _love._

He realises everything at once, and it feels like being hit by a freight train. It’s everything. It’s the way his bed smells of Grantaire, because Grantaire sleeps there, Grantaire spends the night, even when Bahorel is working until the sun rises. It’s the way Grantaire steals his hoodies, is swamped in them and only ever wears them when he needs comfort, making Bahorel want to pull him in and not let him go. It’s Saturday morning episodes of My Little Pony. It’s the way Grantaire has completely integrated himself into Bahorel’s life, and Bahorel doesn’t quite know what to do with himself now. He hasn’t had this before, this unspoken relationship that has the promise of _more,_ but hasn’t quite reached it yet. Not even when he and Feuilly had lived together, after two years of dating. This is something new.

Grantaire isn’t quiet when he comes home, dropping his keys and toeing out of his shoes without finesse. He’s annoyed, scowling as he walks into the kitchen, and makes an obviously distressed noise as he looks over the counter.

“Are you--” Bahorel starts, looking at Grantaire in confusion. He doesn’t think about the way his stomach behaves at the knowledge that Grantaire came straight here, that it’s become second nature for him. Bahorel doesn’t do fucking _butterflies._

“I left my lighter here,” Grantaire says in annoyance, picking up the battered zippo from the counter and tucking it into his pocket. “I had to buy one of those shitty two dollar plastic pieces of shit.”

Bahorel raises an eyebrow wordlessly, and Grantaire makes a huffing noise, obviously annoyed that Bahorel doesn’t understand how horribly traumatic this is, or whatever the fuck Grantaire’s problem is.

Grantaire crowds into his personal space, and he doesn’t demand anything by being there, just takes comfort in the shared body warmth and touch of skin. Bahorel leans back against the counter, shifts his leg’s so he’s bracketing Grantaire’s body, and slouches down until they’re at eye level.

“How was work, honey?” Bahorel asks, and smirks when Grantaire shoves his shoulder.

“Shut the fuck up,” Grantaire responds, “Don’t you have a bar to be at?”

“I have to feed Bella before I go,” Bahorel explains, and he can’t help but think how fucking domestic this all is.

He reaches out, settles his hand on Grantaire’s hip, lets his thumb press into the hollow, where he knows that underneath his shirt are inked words. _Love is not a victory march_ , and Grantaire had explained it, hadn’t he? _When you love someone, you’re giving yourself to them_. Bahorel’s already given himself to Grantaire, that’s obvious, Grantaire is everywhere in his life, but he doesn’t know if Grantaire feels the same. If he even wants to feel the same.

Bahorel’s not one for crippling self-doubt. He isn’t going to hate himself because this _thing_ is unrequited, or whatever the word is. He’s also not about to risk losing all of it just because he’s suddenly stumbled upon having feelings. Grantaire is spooked, easily volatile and unpredictable in his emotions and the last thing Bahorel wants to do is scare him off because he started talking about things like love. He’d rather have this, this casual affection and non-committal sex, the shared space and unspoken words, than not have anything at all. Bahorel doesn’t pick fights he can’t win.

He's in love, so what?

"What the fuck are you thinking about?" Grantaire asks, reaching up to tug on a few strands of Bahorel's hair and bringing Bahorel back to their conversation.

"You," Bahorel says, and laughs when Grantaire's nose wrinkles up in distaste.

"Gross," Grantaire says, although the corner of his mouth tugs up, and there's a look in his eyes that Bahorel can't quite place. Bahorel presses his hands against either side of Grantaire’s face, grins wickedly, and leans in to give him a loud, smacking kiss on the lips. Grantaire’s laugh is lost to the kiss, and he shoves at Bahorel’s shoulder, though it’s not enough to move him.

The mood shifts, and the kiss turns soft, laughter replaced with quiet, shared breaths. Grantaire’s fingers curl over Bahorel’s shoulder, resting his hand there, and Bahorel flexes his fingers against Grantaire’s hip, anchoring himself. Their mouths fit together, gentle, and Bahorel thinks that if this is all he ever gets, he's okay with that.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://www.tumblr.com/blackworkandbruises)


End file.
